


Pride and Practicality

by Papook



Series: Science and Sociality [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Developing Friendships, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Good Dooku (Star Wars), Mentions of Period-Typical Sexism, Plo and Depa need a drink, because their friends are ridiculous, bonding via Science!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papook/pseuds/Papook
Summary: When Count Dooku of Serenno’s cousin casts aspersions on his ability to dance, Dooku seeks to prove him wrong. His choice to ask Miss Skywalker to dance throws high society into an uproar, and irrevocably changes the course of both their lives.
Relationships: Dooku/Shmi Skywalker
Series: Science and Sociality [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157588
Comments: 74
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/gifts).



> For PrimaryBufferPanel, since it was her enthusiasm for this ridiculous idea I had that made it so dang fun to write. Also, all the thanks for the suggestions, coming up with the title, and making sure that Dooku was much less of an accidental jerk.
> 
> For the first time in my life, I have a fic with an update schedule! Look for new chapters on Tuesdays and Fridays. Enjoy!

His Excellency Count Yan Dooku of Serenno was of a decidedly grumpy disposition this evening. He had no desire to be at the Yaddle’s ball, or indeed to be spending his evening socializing at all, but his uncle had insisted. He especially did not want to be harassed by his younger cousin, and most certainly not about this topic.

“Really now, Yan, if you did not spend so much time moldering in your library this would not be an issue,” Qui-Gon said in an utterly patronizing tone. That was rich, coming from someone with his level of personal grooming. The man’s valet ought to be shot for letting Qui-Gon out in public with that hairstyle. It was exceedingly unbecoming, especially for the son of Duke Yoda. It would be unbecoming at whatever rank; his cousin looked like the nether end of a sheepdog.

“I am perfectly capable of dancing, I merely have no desire to engage in the pastime,” Dooku said sternly. 

“All evidence points to the contrary, dear cousin,” Qui-Gon needled. “Surely, as a man of science, you must agree that my hypothesis is correct given the current data.”

“Your understanding of the scientific method never ceases to amaze,” Dooku said, dry as the wine in his glass. 

He was fortunately spared his cousin’s answer, as the current dance set ended and Qui-Gon was engaged for the next. Qui-Gon left to find his partner, though not before bestowing a knowing, meddlesome look. Dooku was seized by a pang of nostalgia for his younger years, when he could escape Qui-Gon’s machinations by telling his cousin’s tutors where the errant student had scurried off to when he should have been at his lessons. Suitable retribution was much harder to come by these days.

As much as he hated to admit it, his pride was stung by Qui-Gon’s assertions. Dooku was of the belief that mastery of the body was an essential component to mastery of the mind; he spent a not inconsiderable amount of time each day in pursuit of such mastery, and while dancing was not his preferred training method, he was a proficient and knowledgeable dancer. Swordplay was, after all, very much a cousin to dance. 

With that in mind, he decided that he would dance the next set, provided he could find a partner. Simply procuring a partner would not be difficult, not when he was acknowledged as the most eligible bachelor in all of England, due to his rank, wealth, and status; finding a partner who would not be a sore trial to dance with was altogether a more trying proposition. 

After a few moments of observation his eye was drawn to a lady on the other side of the room. Dark haired, of middling height, with a solemn mein and a dress of understated elegance, she held herself with admirable poise. She also seemed to be deflating one of the blowhards of the younger set simply by listening to him prattle on. He wilted impressively quickly under her steady regard and hurried away to more easily dazzled company after making his excuses. 

That seemed reasonably promising.

Dooku made his way over to her and bowed when she curtseyed in acknowledgement of his presence. He recognized her upon closer proximity: Miss Shmi Skywalker, only child of a landed gentleman of good standing but not extensive property. They had been introduced during the Season a few years past, but not interacted beyond that first introduction. She was older than the majority of unwedded ladies attending the ball, and though she was rapidly approaching the age of spinsterhood she seemed in no hurry to rectify that, which was quite a refreshing change from the grasping panic of many of the younger women of his acquaintance. 

“Miss Skywalker, if you are not otherwise engaged, might I have the pleasure of partnering you for the next set?”

Surprise flashed over Miss Skywalker’s face, but she rallied with admirable quickness and voiced her assent. He took her hand and escorted her to the forming line, making sure to position the two of them well within Qui-Gon’s line of sight. The shock on his cousin’s face was worth the hissing whispers quickly spreading through the hall. Dooku ignored them; his actions were always remarked upon, for good or ill, and this was no different. It pleased him to notice that Miss Skywalker gave no indication of hearing the ripples of gossip either. 

The dance began. At first it seemed as if they would dance the entire set in silence, which was unfortunately more common than Dooku would wish. It was a source of some private aggravation that even with his deficiencies in grooming and manners, Qui-Gon was genuinely liked, while Dooku—naturally more austere and reserved than his younger cousin—was merely tolerated at events such as this. He was resigned to it by now, though that did not make it any more palatable.

“To whom are you making a point, Your Excellency?” Miss Skywalker asked unexpectedly when they next met in the dance. He glanced at her, somewhat startled, and she elaborated without prompting. “This is quite unusual behavior for you, according to what society reports. Therefore there must be a reason, and I very much doubt it is the inducement of my paltry dowry.”

“A shrewd analysis,” he allowed, more impressed than he let on. As such, he continued, “My cousin, Lord Jinn, was casting aspersions on my dancing.”

She glanced down the line. “He does seem to be paying more attention to you than to his partner.”

“Collecting more data for his hypothesis, I presume.”

“He subscribes to the scientific method?”

“He attempts,” Dooku allowed, and Miss Skywalker’s eyes brightened though her countenance remained grave.

“How terrible for him that this event must be considered a statistical outlier, and thus must be discarded lest it unbearably skew his results.”

“You are familiar with statistical principles?” This was a much more intriguing turn of events than he had anticipated.

“My father subscribes to several scientific and mathematical publications, and saw fit to supplement my education with extensive reading.”

What followed was quite the most enjoyable discourse he had had on a dance floor in the entirety of his life. Miss Skywalker was quick witted, clever, and more widely read than many of his contemporaries. Her conversation was well reasoned and succinct, and he found himself impatient to continue their discourse when the dance separated them. It was such a novel experience that he was quite disappointed when the dance set ended. It was unfortunate that propriety dictated that they must separate after the dance; this was the most stimulating conversation he had had in at least a fortnight.

The dance came to a close, and he led his partner back to where she had been standing and bowed over her hand. "Miss Skywalker, I have rarely had such an enjoyable moment at a ball as I have had dancing with you. If you are not otherwise engaged, may I secure your hand for the supper set?”

“I am not engaged, sir,” she said with a steady countenance.

“Excellent. I would very much like to continue our discussion of Mundi’s latest theorems.”

Her face remained composed but her eyes betrayed a smile. “I look forward to it, Your Excellency.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dooku was not surprised when Rael, his valet, informed him that his actions at the ball the previous night were the talk of the Ton. People were very predictable, and they liked nothing so much as gossip. Rumors were flying, of every stripe imaginable. A secret engagement. Blackmail, on the part of Mr. Skywalker. No one had yet hinted at scandal, but he supposed it was only a matter of time.

What _did_ surprise Dooku was the anger he felt about the rumors that posited that his attentions to Miss Skywalker were rooted in _pity._ As if Miss Skywalker had no virtues to recommend her to anyone, simply because she was older than the majority of unmarried women! She was intelligent, eloquent, and had demonstrated a truly incisive mind, which was a blessed change from the vapid, insipid behavior he so often encountered in the women of his social circles. _Pity_ was the farthest thing from his mind when he considered his interactions with her.

It was perhaps impulsive of him, but he determined that he would call on Miss Skywalker that afternoon, weather permitting. At the very least, it would satisfy the dictates of propriety, and allow him to express his disdain at the thought that she was someone to be _pitied._

The utter nerve of people.

*****

Shmi had been considerably taken aback when the bell rang and Threepio, their manservant, brought her the card tray with the Count of Serenno’s card informing the household of his intent to call that afternoon. It was somehow more startling than his attentions at the ball the previous night; those at least could be explained by boredom and his desire to bait his cousin. But to call on her, out of the public eye, when he was quite notorious for disdaining such social encounters, was a different matter. 

She had been exceedingly surprised when he had approached her at the ball. He did not, as a rule, attend many balls, and danced at even fewer, having a reputation for preferring his scholarly pursuits instead of social pastimes. He was a figure of import in the scientific community, both as a patron of others and a scientist himself. She had hardly known what to think when he asked her to dance. It was so out of character for him that it was something of a relief to know that his motivation had not been one of matrimonial pursuits; that relief had become sincere pleasure at his clear interest in her scholarship. In contrast to every other man of her social circles, the Count had evinced more regard for her once her interest in the sciences had been made known, rather than less. It was quite a change from the young popinjays who could not make up excuses fast enough to escape her presence when she mentioned her thoughts on theoretical mathematics. The Count had been an engaging conversationalist, as well as a fine dancer, and she agreed with his assertion that she had rarely enjoyed a ball to such a degree as when she was his partner.

Still, she had not at all expected the Count to dance two sets with her, and doubly so had not expected him to come and call on her at all, much less so soon after the ball. She wondered if he was perhaps regretting paying her such assiduous attention, but soon dismissed the idea. If he was reconsidering his actions of the previous night, he would not call on her and cement their acquaintance further. What was said in the confines of the drawing room was private, but the street was not, and everyone in the neighborhood would mark his visit.

It was with great curiosity and buried trepidation that she heard the bell ring announcing his visit. Depa had her eyes trained on the door with a look that bordered on gleeful. Shmi restrained a sigh. Her best friend had a lively disposition and quite a romantic streak, whereas Shmi tended more to the pragmatic. Depa had postulated that the Count had fallen wildly in love with Shmi at the ball; Shmi could not discount the theory, having no evidence, but she was far from convinced that was the reason for the current visit. 

The door opened and Depa immediately became a model of maidenly propriety. Shmi suppressed her smile, although, having grown up with Depa, she knew the facade for what it was. It was convenient that Judge Windu, Depa’s father, was already bald; she would have turned his hair grey long since otherwise.

Threepio announced the Count and bowed him into the drawing room. Shmi had a flash of incongruity, seeing a peer of the realm standing in her father’s drawing room. It was possibly the most absurd moment of her life. Her governess would be proud, however; she stood and curtsied appropriately, observed all the social graces, and introduced Depa, who smiled charmingly before excusing herself to the farther end of the room, where she could discretely act as chaperone and eavesdrop with enthusiasm.

“Miss Skywalker,” the Count began, after he was settled and the tea was poured, “I am sure you have already been made aware of the gossip making the rounds of society, given our interaction last night. I wish to apologize for involving you in such trouble; it was due to my actions that you are now the target of the rumor mill. That is unfair to you, and I am sorry for the complications that may arise. However,” he said, forestalling her comments, “I do not apologize for furthering our acquaintance, and I stand by what I said last night: I have rarely been privy to such excellent and enjoyable discourse as we had, much less at a dance, and I would appreciate the opportunity to continue our conversations as often as would be amenable to you.”

Shmi took a sip of her tea and a moment to consider his words and arrange her own. What she said next was not quite the reply expected of a proper, unwed woman, but the tone of the Count's address implied that bluntness was to be the order of the day, and she found herself quite in charity with that unconventional scheme. She felt she had reason to believe that the truths that would lower her in the eyes of most of her acquaintance would likely be looked on with approval by the Count, given his past responses to her. "Thank you for your kind words, Your Excellency. I too would enjoy continuing our conversations. It is rare that I find myself able to speak of my interests freely; many men either find it improper or assume that my education is of much less depth and breadth than theirs when the reverse is true. As to the rumors—" she could not fully suppress a rueful smile. "I am accustomed to being talked about, due to my 'unladylike' enthusiasm for science and mechanics. It will be a refreshing change to be talked about simply for dancing with an honorable gentleman such as yourself."

Her assumptions about the Count were correct. His serious mien lightened at her words. "I was not aware of your interest in mechanics," he said, and immediately set about sounding out her opinions on the latest innovations of steam engines. 

It was with some surprise and no little pleasure that Shmi discovered her knowledge of mechanics outstripped the Count's—and even more encouraging was his reaction to her proficiency. He seemed quite content to avail himself of her expertise, completely lacking in the condescension she so often encountered from men who thought themselves experts in fields they knew little about. It was rare enough that a man looked at her as anything more than a means to acquire her dowry; to have a man look at her, especially a man as famously intelligent and scholarly as the Count of Serenno, and not only listen to what she had to say, but treat her as an intellectual equal—and even more shocking, as a _superior_ —was heady indeed. 

At length a polite tap on the door interrupted their conversation. "I am terribly sorry to intrude," Threepio said, wringing his hands nervously, "but His Excellency's coachman is insistent that His Excellency will need to leave shortly to make it to his other commitments for the day on time."

Shmi and the Count blinked at each other, then turned in tandem to look at the mantelpiece clock. To Shmi’s utter astonishment, over an hour had passed since the Count’s arrival. 

The Count made a stifled sound that might, in other company, have been an exclamation, but rose with deliberate grace. “Convey my apologies to the coachman and let him know I will be out shortly,” he ordered, and Threepio hastened to obey. He turned back to Shmi and bowed. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Miss Skywalker.”

She looked at the impromptu diagram of a telegraph signaler on the tea table composed of cups, saucers, spoons, and napkins, then back up at the Count. “I can hardly forgive something I found no fault in.”

The Count’s eyes brightened with good humor. “I stand corrected. Thank you, then, for allowing me the pleasure of your company and excellent instruction for such a gracious span of time. Please give my regards to your father.” He bowed again and took his leave.

“Good God,” Depa said mildly, from her forgotten position in the corner. “That was the most unnecessary hour of chaperoning I have ever had to undertake in my life.”

Shmi jumped a little, distracted from her renewed perusal of the tea table diagram. Depa snorted and continued. “Neither of you so much as glanced at the other in any possible way that could be construed as flirtatious. I have seen more flirting in _church_ than there was in this drawing room today.”

“I told you, Depa, the Count merely found me a pleasant and informed conversationalist, nothing more.”

Depa sighed and propped her chin on her hand. “There is no romance in your soul, Shmi Skywalker.”

“As you have often lamented, it is entirely made of math and machinery.”

“Well, the Count seems to find that enthralling, so carry on. At this rate I’ll expect banns to be posted by the end of the week.”

_“Depa!”_


	3. Chapter 3

Dooku was walking in Theed Park with Lord Koon a week after his visit to Miss Skywalker, clearing his head after a long morning spent on business at the club. He did not, as a rule, enjoy strolling in the Park—it was much too crowded for his tastes and invariably full of matrons and maidens casting covetous eyes on his rank and fortune and unmarried status in a way that made him feel rather hunted. 

Today in particular was hazardous. Mrs. Gunray and Mrs. Dodd were prowling about, with their daughters and Miss Burtoni in attendance. Dooku dearly hoped it would be possible to avoid them and their grasping ways. Thus it was with no small amount of relief that he saw a different party approaching them on the rose walk. Miss Skywalker was walking with her friend Miss Windu, along with Lady Gallia and Lady Gallia’s cousin Miss Allie. 

“Your Excellency, Lord Koon, good afternoon,” Lady Gallia greeted as their parties met. Bows and curtseys were exchanged, and introductions made between those not already known to each other. Koon easily engaged Lady Gallia and Miss Allie in conversation about their recent trip to Scarif. Miss Windu soon joined in the conversation with Koon, though Miss Skywalker did not. Her air of resigned patience made him suppose that this was not an uncommon occurrence. Dooku was surprised by the surge of sympathy he felt—he too was often burdened with excessively gregarious companions who felt the need to spend a great deal of time talking to all and sundry when Dooku would rather be elsewhere.

He shifted out of the conversational circle and nearer to where Miss Skywalker stood. “Were you able to find a second opinion on the proposed revisions to the telegraph signaler?” he asked quietly. 

Miss Skywalker seemed a bit startled by his address but answered readily enough. “I’m afraid not. None of the journals at my disposal addressed the issue, though I hope that the upcoming edition of the Correllian Review might have some insight.”

“Do you have access to Hydian Analytics? It is unlikely to have any true solution, but it might have some useful perspectives.”

Her expression shaded to rueful. “Unfortunately not, though I have no doubt it would be helpful."

"I could have a copy of the most recent volume sent over, if you would like," he offered.

Pleased surprise bloomed on her face, followed by a slow but warm smile. "That is very kind of you, Your Excellency. Thank you."

“It is no trouble,” he assured her.

A gentle cough directed his attention outward. “I am afraid we must be on our way,” Koon said apologetically, though his look was keen. Dooku nodded in acknowledgement and bowed to Miss Skywalker, then to the other ladies. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Skywalker, ladies. Good day.”

Their groups separated, and he and Koon began to make their way back toward the club. “I have not seen you smile like that in some time, my friend,” Koon remarked after a thoughtful pause.

Dooku sighed. “Please, Koon, not you too. I have had my fill of others remarking on every aspect of my behavior my entire life, and never more than this last week.”

“My apologies. I just wanted to note that it was good to see you happy for a moment.”

“I am happy,” Dooku replied, with perhaps a touch more sharpness than was merited.

“You are satisfied,” Koon said gently, as they reached the doors of the club. “It is not quite the same.” He moved on with a nod, leaving Dooku to his suddenly melancholy thoughts. 

*****

Shmi and her companions watched the gentlemen leave for a moment before the ladies turned in unison to look at her. 

"What," Miss Allie said incredulously, "was _that?"_

"What was what?"

"The Count!" she exclaimed. "He spoke to you! He spoke _especially_ to you and then he _smiled!_ I was not aware he was physically capable of such a feat!"

"Speaking?" Shmi asked dryly.

"Smiling! He is always so stiff and cold and humorless!"

"Are you so often in company with him that you know this for a fact?" Shmi knew the Count's reputation in high society—she could hardly escape the knowledge with how often his unmarried status at five and thirty was discussed and bewailed by the mothers and daughters of the Ton every Season—but her experiences with him had not borne out the conclusions others had reached. He was reserved but not cold, with perfect manners but little apparent desire or patience for frivolous conversation. He was not animated in the way that many people judged to be necessary for true amiability, but though his humor was quiet and sly it assuredly existed.

And he was kind. His compliments were not effusive, but they were honest, and his steady attention to and acceptance of Shmi as she was meant more to her than all the flowery compliments the world over.

"No, but–" 

"Stass," Lady Gallia cut her young cousin's sputtering off firmly. She studied Shmi for a moment. "The Count is not one to engage in idle conversation, especially in a chance meeting. His attention to you _was_ surprising."

"Not as such," Depa said unexpectedly. "I do not believe the Count would consider scholarly discourse as idle conversation. That is what you discussed, is it not?" she asked Shmi.

"It is," Shmi allowed. "He asked me if I had read the latest issue of Hydian Analytics." Lady Gallia gave her a slightly dubious look, while Miss Allie gazed with blank incomprehension. Shmi looked back with calm defiance. She had never apologized for her 'unladylike' interests, and she was not about to start now.

But, she thought as the group began walking again, she wished she had at least _one_ friend who understood _why_ she found science and mechanics compelling. Melancholy tugged at her despite Depa slipping her arm through Shmi's in silent support. Depa was a dear, more sister than friend, but while she was supportive of Shmi she was frank in saying she did not understand her fascination with all things mechanical. Having no one to talk to about what she loved was a constant loneliness.

She wished the Count could have lingered a few moments longer.


	4. Chapter 4

Depa sighed to herself as she watched the other two occupants of the room. She loved Shmi, she really did, but there were times when she and her friend may as well have been from separate planets for how different they were.

It was the fourth week in a row that Depa had been asked to act as chaperone for a visit by the Count of Serenno. Each time the Count stayed for upwards of an hour, and spent the entire time deep in conversation with Shmi, sparing little attention for anyone else. _And yet_ Shmi insisted that he had no desire to court her! Had such interactions happened between any other unmarried man and woman, Depa would have expected them to be wed weeks ago.

It was not that Shmi and the Count were incompatible, Depa mused. They were, in fact, _aggravatingly_ well-matched, even if they both refused to see it. Separately, they were both quite reserved, not prone to speaking much in company. When together, however, Shmi and the Count conversed with such spirit and animation that it was sometimes quite hard to believe they were the same people. The Count’s usual severe mien was replaced by good humor and quick smiles, and Shmi let her habitually calm demeanor soften in favor of sparkling eyes and easy amusement. Even their disagreements were friendly, full of convivial bickering rather than cutting barbs. 

It was just that their discussions were so utterly devoid of _anything_ that could be construed as romantic, unless one found higher mathematical theories to be so. Depa tried, she did, but even with her best efforts she could not fathom calculus as a vehicle for flirtation. She had the finest seat to observe first hand what should have been _the_ romance of the Season—and instead, every visit she was called on to chaperone turned into a two person symposium. 

She truly did not understand either one of them.

*****

Shmi was reading late into the evening when her father approached her in the library.

"What have you got there, Shmi?" he asked, peering around the back of her chair. She flourished the journal without stopping her perusal, and he stepped around to read the title.

"Metalsmithing Monthly, I see. Is this another one of the Count's?"

She nodded. The Count had come to call several more times in the weeks since their encounter in Theed Park, enough so that it was well on its way to being a settled thing—Monday and Thursday afternoons were very likely to see the Count ensconced in their drawing room, engaged in a lively discussion with Shmi about math, science, mechanics, and innovation. Her father had joined them once or twice, but while he was interested in science, his knowledge tended more towards the fields of chemistry and biology than physics or statistics, and he admitted that he could not follow above half of what Shmi and the Count said when they were deep into the minutiae of their chosen topics.

The Count had taken to bringing with him copies of any number of journals that he thought might interest Shmi or add to their discussion, and she had seized on them greedily. A part of her was embarrassed to display such avarice in front of someone of such education and rank as the Count, but his clear satisfaction at her enthusiasm soothed her worries. 

“Shmi…” her father said, in such a tone that Shmi immediately abandoned her reading and looked at him in alarm. He saw her look and smiled a little, shaking his head in a way that let her know the topic was serious but not dreadful. She relaxed somewhat and gave him her full attention.

“Do you know what the Count’s intentions are toward you?”

Were it anyone else asking, Shmi might have taken offense, simply because she was so very tired of hearing that same topic discussed at the edges of her hearing every time she went out. But this was her father. He of all people had a right to know.

“I don’t believe he has any, Papa, except in regards to treating me as a colleague. He has made me no offers of marriage, or of any other form of companionship save as an intellectual equal. And possibly as a favored dance partner,” she added, scrupulously honest. “Because he enjoys our conversation, and if he is dancing with me he need not try and avoid the young ladies bent on securing him.”

“So you are the safe bet, since the only thing you are intent on securing is access to his library?” her father asked, gently teasing. 

She glared at him without heat. “Papa.”

“I know, my dear, I know.” He fell silent a moment before adding, “I am glad you have the chance to know him. You have seemed much happier these past weeks.”

Shmi looked down at the journal in her lap. “It has been...very good to have someone to talk to about my thoughts in detail.”

“Yes,” her father said ruefully. Shmi had long since outstripped his knowledge of and interest in mechanics. He appreciated machines for their results rather than how they functioned, but he had always supported Shmi's desire to learn about whatever she wished. “Well, I am grateful that you have managed to strike up such a friendship, surprising though it may be. It seems to have done you both good. I have never seen the Count so animated as when you two are debating the finer points of ball bearings.”

“That was _once_ , Papa.”

“Yes, and that once caused the Count to overset his teacup in his enthusiasm,” her father said with amusement. He laughed at the expression on her face and leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Good night, my dear. Do remember to go to bed at some point.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed. He smiled at her exasperation and left the library.

Shmi attempted to return to her reading but found herself distracted by her thoughts. Her father's words stuck in her mind—not his questions about the Count's intentions, for she had heard every possible variation of that question murmured by society over the past few weeks, but his assessment of her happiness. 

Shmi had worked to make her life as satisfactory as possible, given the limitations placed on her by her sex and place in society, and for the most part felt satisfied with what she had accomplished. But it still chafed on occasion, that because she was a woman she was considered capable only of existing on the fringes of the scientific community. No matter how well or widely read she was, how firm her foundation of theoretical knowledge, she was doomed to be only an observer, never a participant. Her true wish was to be able to design and build machines, to put into practice all the theories and ideas she had collected and nurtured throughout her life. 

As of yet, however, she could not see a way to do so. Indeed, she had nearly given up hope of _any_ sort of interaction with her field of interest other than reading words on a journal page until the Count asked her to dance and expressed appreciation for her grasp of statistics. Her father was right: she felt much happier now that she was able regularly talk to the Count about her views. 

It would be a lie to say that she had never wondered about the Count’s intentions toward her; even if the thought may not have occurred to her naturally, the relentless gossip about it would have forced her to consider the topic. She had wondered, the first several times that she was in company with the Count, if he might have had designs of marriage, but the longer they were acquainted the more sure she was that he had no intention of ever proposing. In some ways, it would be a disappointment if he did propose; his treatment of her as a colleague first and a woman second was amazingly refreshing, and she would be sad to discover that his manner was due to ulterior motives instead of a true feeling of academic fellowship.

But this was a pointless line of inquiry, she told herself. The Count had never indicated his interest in her as anything but a fellow scholar and friend, and that was not likely to change. She firmly put it out of her mind, followed her father’s advice, and took herself off to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Dooku was pleased to see that Miss Skywalker and her father had also been invited to Mr. Amedda’s comet watching party. In truth, the party was likely an excuse for Amedda to display his new telescope—and for some of the guests to take advantage of the dim lighting necessary for clear viewing—but Dooku was feeling reasonably charitable about the whole affair as it was blessedly _not_ a ball.

After observing the correct social niceties and greeting those of his acquaintances present, Dooku took his turn at looking through the telescope to observe the comet. The telescope was indeed an excellent piece of craftsmanship, though he regretted asking Mr. Amedda about its origin after only a moment of conversation. Mr. Amedda seemed likely to expound on the most minute details of the commission all night. 

Miss Skywalker caught his eye as she passed behind Mr. Amedda for her turn at the telescope and raised a brow, suppressed mirth in the quirk of her lips. Dooku narrowed his eyes at her; she busied herself with peering through the telescope, but not before he saw her smile broaden. He was sure she was laughing at his misfortune.

Three more people had moved past to look at the telescope when Mr. Amedda’s interminable droning was abruptly cut short by a shriek and a crash. The telescope and its stand had fallen to the ground, apparently taking a young lady with it. She was struggling to sit up, hindered by the dress tangled around her legs and the legs of the telescope stand. The telescope had come unmoored from the stand and rolled a short distance in the other direction. Dooku immediately moved to assist the young lady. Mr. Amedda, predictably, only cared for his precious telescope.

“You clumsy chit, what were you doing?” Mr. Amedda snarled as Dooku dropped to his knees next to the girl. The poor thing looked to be on the edge of tears. Dooku hesitated a moment, unsure of how to best help the girl while still adhering to propriety, and torn between the urge to help her and the desire to confront Mr. Amedda over his baseless accusations. 

In a heartbeat Miss Skywalker was kneeling at his side. Her eyes flickered over to Mr. Amedda as she frowned. Dooku dipped his head in a tiny nod of acknowledgement and rose to his feet, leaving the young lady safely in Miss Skywalker’s adept hands. 

“There is no reason to jump to such a conclusion, Mr. Amedda,” Dooku said sharply. “It looks to me like it was simply a case of unfortunate timing on her part rather than clumsiness or malice. She was merely standing in the wrong spot when the telescope unbalanced.”

“It is _broken,”_ Mr. Amedda hissed, beginning to purple with rage. 

“Nonsense,” Dooku said briskly. He stepped forward, conveniently blocking the ladies from Mr. Amedda’s view as he surveyed the telescope stand. The cause of the fall was quickly apparent. “One of the brackets on this leg came loose and unbalanced the stand. It will be but the work of a moment to fix.”

Miss Skywalker had by this time untangled the girl’s skirts and helped her to her feet. She paused a moment next to him as they moved back towards the house to silently draw a small leather case from her reticule and discreetly slip it into his hands. He quickly examined it and found it contained a set of very well made tools, perfect for occasions such as this. He took a moment to marvel at her foresight before selecting a small screwdriver and turning his attention to the errant telescope stand. 

Indeed, it only took a handful of minutes to restore the stand to complete functionality, by which time servants had arrived to affix the telescope to it and point it once more at the night sky. Dooku withdrew while Mr. Amedda was busy berating his servants for their rough handling of the instrument and went in search of Miss Skywalker.

After a few moments he discovered her sitting on a bench in a tucked away corner, conversing quietly with the young lady who had been overset by the telescope. They made as if to rise when he approached, but he forestalled them with a shake of his head and settled himself on the bench next to Miss Skywalker. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked lowly.

“As well as can be expected,” Miss Skywalker said in the same tone. She raised her voice a bit and gestured to the young, rather tearstained lady fidgeting with a damp handkerchief. “Your Excellency, may I introduce Miss Komari Vosa? She was just telling me about her interest in astronomy. Miss Vosa, Count Yan Dooku of Serenno.”

Miss Vosa looked terrified at the introduction. Dooku made an effort to gentle his manner as much as he could. “I am exceedingly sorry for the unfortunate accident you suffered, Miss Vosa. I hope you took no lasting damage from it.”

She shook her head wordlessly, though he could not tell if it was in negation or simply from fright. He cast about for a topic to set her at ease. “Were you able to view the comet?”

“Yes, for a moment,” Miss Vosa ventured in a trembling voice.

“It was quite magnificent, was it not?”

“Yes,” she said, a tad more courageously. Dooku slowly coaxed her into a discussion of comets and other astronomical phenomena, and counted it a success as she gradually relaxed and regained her composure. She did not have a great deal of education on the subject, but it was clear that she had a fervent desire to learn more.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour’s worth of discussion Miss Vosa’s mother found their secluded corner and collected her charge with many effusive remarks. Miss Vosa, who had begun to show some animation during their conversation, shrank back into herself. Dooku regretted that he could not do more to help her spirits, but Mrs. Vosa whisked her daughter away before he could formulate any sort of plan.

As the Vosas left Miss Skywalker let herself lean back with a soft sigh. “That was kindly done, Your Excellency. I did my best to comfort Miss Vosa but I think your encouragement will carry more weight with her. Hopefully she can use it to guard against despair.”

“It was the least I could do,” Dooku answered. Miss Skywalker inclined her head but did not comment further, her eyes trained on Miss Vosa’s receding form.

After a moment, Miss Skywalker confessed quietly, “I feel terrible for her. She said she had to beg her father to let her come to this party, and now she is likely to be punished for the fuss she caused and may not ever get another chance to pursue her passion, even tangentially.”

“That is awful,” Dooku agreed, sorrowful.

“There but for my father's grace go I," Miss Skywalker murmured, and fell into a troubled silence.

Dooku wondered, not for the first time, how many women were in the same situation as Miss Vosa: trapped by lack of education. To his chagrin, this was the first time he had considered that rather than being disinclined to pursue an education and improvement of their minds, as he had once assumed, many women were instead denied the opportunity to do so. He realized that he had supposed Miss Skywalker to be singular in her understanding of academic subjects; that was true, but now he understood that more factors than just her desire to learn had been at play to make her so. How many young women—like Miss Vosa—would be equally as impressive if given the chance?

After a long while of pondering that question, Dooku asked, "Do so many fathers care so little for their daughters' education?"

"Well-bred women," Miss Skywalker said with a bitterness he had never heard from her before, "are meant to be ornaments. It is vanishingly rare that we are allowed to be _people."_

He did not know what to say.

After a moment she said, "Forgive me, Your Excellency. You do not deserve my vitriol. _You_ have never treated me as anything less than a person."

"You need not apologize for a perfectly rational feeling. I doubt I would be half so sanguine if I was in your place.”

She gave him a ghost of a smile. After searching for something to lighten the mood, he handed her the tool case he was still holding. “Thank you, these were exactly what was needed. I must commend your preparedness.”

Her smile turned real and a bit wry. “Usually these are only called on to repair broken spectacles or a malfunctioning pocket watch. What an honor to be used for something as exalted as Mr. Amedda’s telescope.”

Dooku choked on a laugh. "A signal honor indeed. I am almost grateful to the dratted thing for falling over. I fear I would never have been able to escape the interminable droning otherwise."

"Shall we put that hypothesis to the test, Your Excellency?" Miss Skywalker teased.

"Good God, no. That is an experiment I have no desire to conduct." She laughed at his disgusted expression. 

“It appears that Mr. Amedda has turned his attention to Mr. Poof, so we will likely be safe if we rejoin the group. Or we could stay here and provide more grist for the rumor mill.”

“Once more into the breach, I suppose,” Dooku sighed as he rose to his feet. “Lead on.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Your Excellency,” Miss Skywalker said, smiling. Dooku found himself, as always, smiling back as he joined her where she was standing against the wall of the Tiin’s ballroom, as had become habit when they were invited to the same events. 

“Miss Skywalker, Miss Windu,” he said, greeting the ladies. Miss Windu curtseyed and murmured appropriate pleasantries, although Dooku was sure she was rolling her eyes under the cover of her curtsey. Nowadays, when she was asked to accompany Miss Skywalker to make sure that propriety was observed, she invariably gave her greetings and then retreated to her customary corner and buried herself in a book, to “prevent herself from being bored to tears,” as she had asserted once when asked if she would prefer to join the conversation. Miss Windu’s interests, Miss Skywalker had explained with quiet humor, ran much more to sociology than to the hard sciences; she was interested in their conversations, but mostly as an anthropological case study rather than in the topics discussed. 

Indeed, after observing the requisite social niceties, Miss Windu quickly withdrew, leaving them together. Miss Skywalker wrinkled her nose at her retreating friend before quickly smoothing out her expression. Dooku suppressed his amusement and handed her a cup of punch. 

“She despairs of us, you know,” Miss Skywalker said. “Months into our mutual acquaintance and not a single flirtation to show for it.”

“If only the gossip mill would come to that conclusion as well,” Dooku replied, a bit dourly. The rumors surrounding their supposed relationship had only increased in volume and extravagance over time. There were stories that Miss Skywalker was of a purely mercenary mind, and he was nobly resisting her enticements, or slowly succumbing to them; that they were secretly engaged already; that they were engaged in a scandalous affair; and many others besides. 

The rumors he hated the most were the ones that supposed he liked Miss Skywalker enough to converse with her, but that he was too cold and uncaring to marry her. Some called it an 'intellectual affair'. The insult to his own character did not infuriate him nearly as much as the slight to Miss Skywalker. She was a truly amazing person and deserving of every good thing, and any man would be lucky to secure her affections and hand in marriage.

"Have you heard the latest rumor?" Miss Skywalker said lightly. "Apparently you proposed, and I rejected you. It's the only sensible explanation for our behavior."

"Friendship is such a fantastical theory?" he muttered.

The look she bestowed on him was half dark amusement, half gentle reproach. "Friendship doth not good scandal make."

"I would rather everyone keep their imaginations to themselves."

"What has gotten into you tonight? You are not usually put in such a foul temper over idle gossip."

"Apologies." He took a moment to master himself and choose his words. "I am...out of patience with the gossip for several reasons, but most especially because it is demeaning. It paints you in the worst light, and gives a patently untrue picture of your character and intellect. And though it has not yet come to it, the rumors are likely to have a very detrimental effect on your prospects should you choose to pursue marriage. The whole business offends me, and I am afraid of how it may wound you."

Miss Skywalker's look was affectionate. "My desire and prospects for marriage have never been great, and less so with each passing year. My inheritance is sufficient to supply me with a comfortable life, and while some men have expressed interest in my dowry, none have ever expressed honest interest in _me,_ and I entertain no patience for those of a mercenary bent. I would far rather have a disagreeable reputation and your friendship than the reverse. You have only ever treated me with respect and esteem, as your worries so recently illustrated."

"I would rather you be able to have a sterling reputation as well as my friendship," Dooku said gravely, warmed by her words but unable to fully dismiss his concerns.

"Your kindness does you credit, Your Excellency," Miss Skywalker said fondly. "And I am honored by your care for me."

They were at that moment obliged to fall silent, as the first dance was about to be called, and Miss Skywalker's partner came to collect her for the dance. Dooku was relieved to see it was Sir Fisto; the knight was young but kind, and not one to request a dance with Miss Skywalker for reasons of satisfying prurient curiosity. Dooku nodded his acknowledgement of the knight, and tried to smile reassuringly when Miss Skywalker sent him a concerned glance over her shoulder as Sir Fisto escorted her to the dance floor.

He knew Miss Skywalker meant what she said, that she was reasonably inured to the damage being done to her reputation, but he still found himself concerned for her wellbeing. It was not that he thought she would be incapable of living a fulfilling life in spite of the gossip dogging her heels—but she had become a dear friend to him, one of the very few he had, and he did not wish her to have to face such a struggle if it could be avoided. He wished there was something he could do to ease her way.

Unfortunately, the easiest way for Miss Skywalker to avoid any more damage to her reputation would be to wed. He did not _like_ that conclusion, but facts did not care for his opinions, they simply were.

He stared unseeing at the dance floor as he wrestled with the problem. Unconsciously, his gaze landed on Miss Skywalker and Sir Fisto as the knight said something to her with a charming smile and she laughed. They made a handsome pair, and it was good to see her enjoying herself. Dooku knew that balls were not her preferred activity, especially lately, given the rumors hounding them both. He was grateful that Sir Fisto's ease and friendliness were providing her some happiness. 

Perhaps Sir Fisto would recognize what a remarkable woman Miss Skywalker was and make her an offer. Dooku did not think that Sir Fisto was her intellectual equal, but he was a good man, and while his interests did not run along the same lines as Miss Skywalker's, Sir Fisto would not bar her from pursuing her passions.

That realization was quickly followed by a second, much more melancholy one: if Miss Skywalker were to wed, Dooku's friendship with her—already looked on with suspicion and confusion by society—would be seriously curtailed, not only by physical distance, as Sir Fisto’s estate of Glee Anselm was quite a distance from the capitol, but by propriety as well. It would not be proper in the least for Dooku to spend the amount of time he was accustomed to spending conversing with Miss Skywalker with another man's wife. Dooku hoped that he and Miss Skywalker would be able to remain colleagues at least; he would miss her brilliance and incisive analysis quite terribly, but their current ease of interaction, comfortable though it was, could not last indefinitely. 

It was a thoroughly depressing thought. 

*****

Plo Koon was not expecting to have Count Dooku pay him a call so late at night, and most certainly not in this state of distress. Plo quickly took Dooku to the library and poured him a glass of port for fortification. He poured himself one as well; given Dooku’s apparent agitation, it was likely a necessity.

After a few minutes of gentle coaxing and false starts Dooku laid out the reason for his upset: he was deeply concerned about Miss Skywalker’s future happiness and wellbeing, and thought that she would be best served by marriage to an honorable gentleman, but Dooku was struggling both to think of anyone who was worthy of her and with the inevitable distance that must grow between himself and her when she was wed.

Plo requested clarity on a few points as he sipped his port, simply to double check that he had all the pertinent facts and was not, in fact, missing the blindingly obvious, unlike his very intelligent and astonishingly _dense_ friend currently wearing a path in the library rug with his agitated pacing.

“Dooku,” Plo said very slowly. “I realize that you are a very busy man, with many demands on your time and attention, but has it perhaps occurred to you that _you_ are unmarried, and thus perfectly capable of providing for Miss Skywalker yourself?”

Plo had the rare and distinct pleasure of seeing his habitually poised friend utterly flummoxed.

“Oh,” Dooku said weakly. 

Plo drained his glass.


	7. Chapter 7

When Shmi did not hear from the Count for two days after the Tiin’s ball she began to be concerned. He had been somewhat dispirited and distracted the whole night; every time she exchanged words with him he had expended visible effort to focus, in a way that was most unlike his usual keen manner. She had put it down to his unhappiness with the increasingly desperate efforts of Miss Burtoni to engage his affections as the end of the Season neared; it did take quite a toll on him to remain polite in the face of such effrontery. But two days with no word from him was exceedingly out of the ordinary, and Shmi began to fear something of more import had gone wrong. 

Thus it was a welcome surprise and relief when she returned from calling at Lady Unduli’s to find him waiting in the drawing room. “Your Excellency, welcome back. I was beginning to wonder if something dire had happened.”

He bowed, as usual, and smiled at her, but there was a shade of something in his expression she could not identify. “Nothing dire, I assure you, merely something requiring a great deal of attention.” He hesitated for a moment, which was enough out of the ordinary that Shmi felt the first stirrings of real alarm. “Miss Skywalker, may we speak privately?”

“Of course,” she managed, past her certainty that someone had surely died. It was the work of a moment to gently chivvy the eternally fussing Threepio out into the hallway and shut the door. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I have been...considering what you told me at the Tiin’s ball,” he said slowly. “And it occurred to me that I may have a solution to a multitude of our collective difficulties. You said that your desire for marriage has never been great, but...would you perhaps be amenable to marrying _me?_ ”

It took quite a long moment for the sense of the Count’s question to fully sink in. When it did, Shmi blurted, “Yan Dooku, are you proposing to me to spite the rumor mongers?”

He had the audacity to smirk at her. “Perhaps a little.”

She could not help it. She started to laugh so hard she had to sit down. He joined in and sat beside her. When they had regained their composure he took her hand and said, “Just think: it would certainly put to flight the rumors that I was leading you on, as well as the rumors that you were a fortune hunter. The most people could say about you if we were married is that you were successful in that endeavor.”

“And the rumors that you had already proposed and I scorned you?” she asked, smiling.

He gave an elegant shrug. “I felt that you should at least have a chance to refuse me in truth, as opposed to just in rumor.”

He sobered somewhat and looked down at her hand in his. “In all honesty, Miss Skywalker, while your acceptance of my proposal would eradicate many small annoyances in both our lives, I count you as one of my dearest friends, and I care deeply about your security and happiness. I have no doubt of your ability to forge a fulfilling life regardless of the circumstances; I would just like to be able to help provide the best circumstances possible. And, selfishly, I would also like to be able to talk with you at any time without boring a chaperone to tears or providing grist for the rumor mill. I myself have never found the idea of marriage very palatable, because I have never found a woman who I felt could be a true companion as well as a wife. But now I find myself quite in charity with the idea of securing your company for the rest of my life.”

She was warmed by his praise, but at the same time she could not help but consider the more problematic logistics of marriage. “And what of the expectations to continue your family line?” she asked quietly. She held the Count in great esteem and affection, but she had no desire to bear his children.

He shook his head. “I am not in any way offering with the condition that you need bear me anything but friendly affection and goodwill. We would have to add provisions for possible children in the marriage contract, but if none are produced I see no reason why my estate and holdings cannot be inherited by my nephew, who is my current heir-designate.”

That eased her mind enough that she could begin to fully consider what his offer of marriage meant. He was silent beside her, and she felt a rush of affection for her friend, who knew she needed time to think and respected her enough to provide it.

It was a neat solution, she had to admit. Many of the current issues they were both having to refute or navigate around would be solved or rendered irrelevant by their marriage, and there were many advantages to be gained on both sides. For the Count, companionship and the cessation of the many desperate ploys to engage his affections. On her side, nearly too many things to count: a boost to her reputation, relief from the social stigma of approaching spinsterhood, material security. It was with something approaching avarice that Shmi realized she would not only have access to the Count’s library if they married, but likely also his contacts in the scientific community. Many of the doors currently closed to her as Miss Skywalker, unmarried scion of a lowly gentleman, would be opened with alacrity for Lady Dooku, wife of the Count of Serenno. Count Dooku wanted to provide her with lasting security; she wondered if he knew that he was also offering her the freedom she craved.

But beyond even that, the thought of being continually in company with the man who had always treated her with uncommon respect and kindness, who had become a vital friend, and who consistently made her _happy_ _,_ warmed Shmi to her core. It was not until that moment that she realized how she had feared that her association with the Count might someday end.

She knew what her answer would be.

Shmi looked at their clasped hands and smiled. “Depa will be insufferable, you realize,” she said ruefully. “She has said from the beginning that we were outrageously well-matched. She will be delighted to be proven right.”

“Dare I assume that means you accept my offer?” the Count asked, hope and trepidation warring in his expression.

“Yes,” Shmi said firmly. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the beginning of the story of the two dumbest smart people in the entire kingdom. If you are interested in the rest of the story, keep an eye on this series: we'll take a peek at what the rest of society is up to, as well as what happens as Dooku and Shmi adjust to being married and also make their friends want to develop a drinking problem even more intensely. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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